End of The World
by ViennaSunset
Summary: One-shot. Sherlock/Irene. An alternative version of the scene in front of the fireplace. Mrs Hudson is coming up the stairs and Irene knows this is her only chance. But will Sherlock accept the offer? T for faint sexual references and general lust.


**Hi. I'm back and I'm shipping Irene/Sherlock. I'm currently writing another Sherlock/Irene fic and a Sherlock/Molly. But this one just couldn't wait. OMGOMGOMG. I almost died during this scene. Why did nothing happen? Well I know why, but oh Jesus. It was the hottest thing ever.**

**Anyway, enjoy! :') **

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><p><strong>END OF THE WORLD<strong>

**SHERLOCK/IRENE**

"_What if it was the end of the world?"_

"_Too late."_

"_It's not the end of the world; it's Mrs Hudson."_

"Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson's voice rang up the stairwell, followed by the thump of her footsteps drawing nearer to the flat. Irene was still knelt in front of him, his hand still wrapped awkwardly around her wrist, fingers pushed into her pressure point. Their gaze never shattered, not even they heard Mrs Hudson reach the second staircase. Irene wondered why she couldn't look away. Maybe it was because she wasn't ever used to not seeing fear or sordid pain in someone's eyes before. It was refreshing to not see it in a man's eyes.

"Tell her to leave then." Irene whispered, her eyes darkening. Sherlock remained disconcertingly silent.

He'd known a lot of women in his life. To rephrase it, he'd ignored a lot of women's advances in his life. His common scolding of people seeing but never observing had somehow come back to bite him on the arse, he realised. He was _observing_ every little detail of her. The faint tint of red on her upper lip which told him she drank a lot of red wine. The slight, yet abnormal indent on the wrist he was still holding said she'd wore an ill-fitting watch for a long time. He could merely _observe_ her chest rising and falling deeper underneath her thin clothing. Yet he didn't _see_ the look inside her mind which most other men would see. Somehow he couldn't read the way she dropped her gaze for a second, her tongue tracing across her lips. All these things ordinary men _saw_ were the key to why most men knew the right moment to kiss a woman.

"Sherlock!"

He felt her pulse hitch at the sound of Mrs Hudson's voice. She looked somewhat pleadingly at him. Mrs Hudson was outside the door now, and neither of them made any effort to move. As Mrs Hudson fumbled with the lock, Irene pushed up from her spot on the floor into Sherlock's lap. Their knee's slotted in-between each others, her mouth pushed firmly on his. One hand fed inside his jacket and the other roughly tugged at his hair. She had him caged against his seat, his hot breath on her lips. She was sure she felt him retaliate the kiss.

"Sherlock, how many time do I have to tell you to put that bloody violin-" Mrs Hudson suddenly faltered at the threshold, stunned by a second at the scene set before her. She wondered if either had heard her come in. Either way, in the two seconds she stood there, Sherlock's hand subconsciously lifted up inside the girl's shirt to her waist.

"I'm so sorry."

Even after the door had closed and Mrs Hudson had scurried away, Irene did not leave his lap. She bit, clawed, pulled. Her nails rushed down the back of his neck, around to his chest. She managed to unbutton his shirt without even trying. Her lips left his and she scratched her teeth down his neck to his chest. Swallowing, he shifted uncomfortably, his hands finding her wrists. He could feel her breath down at his waistband, her teeth almost clattering with his belt buckle. She tried to let her hands meander towards the belt, but he held her wrists all the harder, pushing her down onto the sofa.

There they stayed for a moment. He was pinning her to the chair, almost straddling her. Red marks snaked across his skin where she'd torn at him; his shirt was ripped open with the sheer force of her passion. Her top had fallen open; he was sure there had been no passion on his part. She had kissed him. She was peering back up at him through lowered eyelashes, her ribs appearing and disappearing as she breathed heavily.

"Do it, Sherlock." She whispered, moving her knee up to his inner thigh. "I can see in your eyes you want to."

Silence.

Not letting go of her wrists he pressed his body against hers, feeling a gasp tremble within her throat. He let his mouth brush against her collarbone, not kissing, just brushing. He felt her leg wind around his back, edging his hips closer. Slowly he let his lips touch her ear and whispered,

"Enough." He loosened his grip on her, "Enough."

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><p><strong>Yep. I kept them clean. Well, as clean as I could without ruining Sherlock's enigma. Hope you like it. Hopefully I'll be writing more Sherlock fics now the new season is back. Hopefully it'll stimulate my muse. Let me know what you thought! :)<strong>


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